Bill took a sheet of folded paper from the breast pocket of his jacket and passed it to Thatcher, who unfolded the sheet and read the lines written in a spidery script. When he finished, he refolded the sheet and handed it back to Bill.
Thatcher said, “You’re going to show this to Gabe Driscoll and gauge his reaction?”
“I’m going to show it to him,” Bill said as he slowed his car in front of the Driscoll house. “You’re going to gauge his reaction.”
As they went up the walk, Thatcher noticed that without the kindhearted lady of the house there to oversee its upkeep, the place was beginning to look neglected. Weeds were sprouting in the flower beds. The grass needed mowing.
The sign at the gate had indicated that the doctor was in, but there were no other autos there, and when Bill rang the doorbell, it echoed through empty rooms.
Thatcher hadn’t seen Gabe Driscoll since the morning in the sheriff’s office when the doctor had viciously accused him of abducting his wife. In the intervening weeks, his hairline had receded, he’d lost a considerable amount of weight, and his eyes were sunken into their sockets. He looked like a man who’d just crawled out of a hole or was about to crawl into one.
Upon seeing them, he clutched the doorjamb. “Mila?”
“No, Gabe, sorry,” Bill said. “But we’d like to speak with you. Are you with a patient?”
He shook his head and, after a second’s hesitation, stood aside and motioned them in. Bill removed his hat and used it to gesture toward Thatcher. “You remember Mr. Hutton?”
“I couldn’t very well forget him.” The doctor regarded him with hostility. “I thought you were on your way to the Panhandle.”
“Change of plans.”
Bill said, “I’ve made him a reserve deputy.”
The doctor tilted his head as though the sheriff might be joking and would add a punch line. Realizing Bill was serious, he said, “If this isn’t about Mila, why are you here?”
“We need your professional opinion on a matter.”
Still looking puzzled and a bit uneasy, he said, “Let’s talk in my office. The other rooms aren’t… I haven’t had anyone in to clean.”
He led the way and pointed them into chairs facing his desk. The doctor went around and sat down behind it. They didn’t make small talk. Bill leaned forward and passed Gabe the folded sheet of paper he’d shown Thatcher in the car.
He said, “Yesterday, a woman was brought to Dr. Perkins. She was unconscious, her condition life-threatening. She soon died. Since it was obvious that she had been the victim of a violent crime, at my request, Dr. Perkins compiled a comprehensive list of her more serious injuries.”
As the doctor’s eyes scanned down the sheet, his brow became increasingly furrowed. When he reached the final two notations, he murmured, “Good God.”
Bill said, “I had her transported to Dallas for the autopsy.”
“Why did you bring this to me?”
“Doc Perkins is earnest and hardworking, but he’s the first to admit that he’s not as knowledgeable in modern medicine as you are. I’d like to know if you agree with his hypothetical notes on how the victim’s injuries were inflicted. I could wait on the autopsy report, but that may take days, if not weeks. I want to move on this. The perpetrator must be found.”
“Without examining the woman myself—”
“I realize I’m placing you at a disadvantage. I’m asking for a general assessment only. Generally speaking, do you agree with Dr. Perkins’s hypotheses?”
Looking dubious, Driscoll ran his finger down the page. “Well, yes. Based on his descriptions, I would say someone hit her in the face repeatedly and hard enough to break bones. Probably with his fist, but it could have been an instrument.
“And, if the infliction is violent enough, blunt force to an organ can cause it to bleed even if it doesn’t rupture. Dr. Perkins’s description of the bruise on her back above her kidney indicates to me that she was stomped on rather than kicked. In regards to the rape, I concur with him. It wasn’t about sexual gratification. It was defilement and had to be sheer torture for the poor woman.”
Bill said quietly, “It was Norma Blanchard, Gabe.”
The doctor’s face went as white as the sheet of paper that drifted out of his fingers as they went slack. He began breathing hard and fast through his mouth. He blinked rapidly. Thatcher thought he might be on the verge of passing out.
He tried to stand, but his knees buckled, and he dropped back into the seat of his chair. He planted his elbows on the surface of his desk and held his head between his hands.
“Gabe?” Bill said.
For the longest time, he didn’t respond, then, “Who did it?”